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“’Fine, you ass,’” Jody reads. “You win, for once. Enjoy. –R.’” She looks up at Sam. “Who’s ‘R’?”
Sam deflates a little. “Rufus,” he recalls sadly. “Old friend of Bobby’s.”
Jody raises an eyebrow and looks back at the bottle. “Sore loser, apparently.”
Sam laughs without humor. “Yeah,” he agrees. “He was.”
--
1992
“This motherfucker is crazy.”
Bobby’s sandwich pauses on the way to his mouth, and he lets out a deep sigh. “Thought we agreed: no Pat Buchanan before noon, Rufus,” he calls.
“No, no. Not him. This damn governor,” Rufus replies.
Bobby steps into the living room, frowning. “The guy from Arkansas? I thought you liked him.”
“No, not Clinton. You’re right, I do like him. He’s got a real soothing voice,” Rufus says. “I’m talking about Buck Stetson.” He gestures to the television, where Stetson, the prominent frontrunner in the upcoming South Dakota governor race, is delivering an animated speech.
“He’s not governor yet,” Bobby says around a bite of ham and cheese.
Rufus snorts. “I’m sorry, I thought ‘governor’ was another word for ‘Republican candidate in South Dakota’. Please, Bobby. He’s running against a Black man, for crying out loud.”
“Hey, it’s 1992,” Bobby shrugs. “This ain’t the Dark Ages, Rufus. Stranger things have happened.”
Rufus turns around in his seat to regard him suspiciously. “You’re awfully optimistic this morning. What’s going on?”
“What, now I need a reason to be in a good mood?” Well, that came out a little defensive. He gets a cocked eyebrow, and then Rufus turns back to glare fixedly at the TV again.
Fact is, he has been feeling pretty good lately. Rufus came into town a few weeks ago to help him take out a big nest of vamps over in Wichita, and has been freeloading at Bobby’s place ever since, even though it’s been quiet on the monster front. Not that Bobby really minds – or that he’d ever admit it – but it’s nice to have another human presence around the house, even a crotchety one like Rufus. And then of course there’s the other stuff – the feelings he gets around Rufus, especially when they’ve stayed up too late and had too much whiskey – but that’s just loneliness, he tells himself. He’d never act on it. They’re partners, friends, best friends, even, if either of them could have such a thing, but nothing more.
“I’m telling you, Bobby, something’s not right with this guy.”
Bobby sucks a spot of mustard off his finger and tries not to register it when Rufus’s eyes briefly settle on his mouth. “What’re you on about now?”
“Listen to this.” He turns up the volume on the television.
“Republican Buck Stetson went on the record this morning declaring war on South Dakota Public Schools. Stetson accused the school districts of bankrupting not only the state economy, but the morals of schoolchildren with what he is calling ‘godless curriculums’. Stetson blamed his predecessor for allowing South Dakota to become a ‘Nanny State’, and has called for cutbacks across the board on all forms of school funding, including teacher pay. These bold statements follow last week’s rally, at which he – ”
Bobby gets up, shaking his head. “Jesus, I can’t listen to this garbage anymore. How in the hell can you stand it?”
Rufus shrugs. “Helps that we get to kill things.” He chuckles. “That’s my coping strategy, anyways.” Clearing his throat, he adds, “I like to stay informed, Bobby. And I’ve been watching this Stetson character since he came outta nowhere a couple months back. I’m telling you, something is seriously off.”
Bobby chews his last bite of sandwich and waits for Rufus to get to the point.
“I think the bastard’s possessed.”
“Possessed?” Bobby snorts. “Give me a break, Rufus. Just because he’s a moron and a scumbag like the rest of those Washington folk don’t mean he’s got a goddamn demon in him.”
Rufus gives the television another dark look. “I’m not so sure.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll bite.” This oughta be good.
“Stetson used to go by Brandon,” Rufus starts, a steely edge to his voice that Bobby knows means he’s going to end up agreeing to whatever hare-brained scheme his friend’s come up with. “Used to be party mouthpiece, and a shitty one at that. Couldn’t speak worth a damn. Had a stutter and everything. Hell of a lawyer, as I understand, but not what you’d call a ‘people person’.” He motions to the screen, which is showing Stetson at a podium, shouting and gesticulating with a crowd going wild before him. “Then two months ago, he up and quits his job, exposes the party leader’s involvement in a sex scandal, starts charming the pants off everyone he meets and holding rallies – I mean, listen to him, that stutter is gone. You’d never know he used to be a mousy little legislator.”
Bobby crosses his arms. “All right, it’s a little weird, but what’s a demon want with a damn governor anyhow?”
Rufus shrugs. “Got me. Won’t be anything good, even if the thing’s just having some fun.”
“And I suppose you’ve got a plan for taking care of it.”
That gets him a toothy smile. “Sure do, Bobby. Same drill as always. Except you’ll have to get us in, because ain’t no Republicans letting a handsome black man like me into their house.”
“Right,” Bobby groans, rubbing the short whiskers on his chin. He needs to shave. He always needs to shave; it’s one of those things he’s been slipping up on since Karen passed.
“You and me, Bobby. We can take care of this thing together, no problem.” Rufus is still grinning at him, and it’s doing a funny thing to his heart. “And if it turns out to be nothing, well, you get to say ‘I told you so’.”
“You’re outta your fool head,” Bobby tells him, which is as good as an agreement, and Rufus knows it.
“Tell you what,” Rufus offers. “I’ll sweeten the deal for you. If I’m wrong about this, I’ll buy you a bottle of scotch.” He nods to the bottles of Jack they’ve been draining. “Nice scotch. Not like that crap. And, of course, if I’m right, which I am, you get to buy me a nice bottle of scotch.” He smiles again and rubs his hand up and down his stomach. “Get your wallet ready, Bobby.”
Bobby narrows his eyes. “You making a bet with me, Turner?”
“Oh, no, don’t you go pulling that Bobby Singer swagger with me. This ain’t a casino game, brother. Just a friendly wager between hunting buddies.” He winks. “That you’re gonna lose.”
The wink’s probably what does it. Fact is, Bobby’s never had a problem saying “no” to people, with five notable exceptions. His wife was one, and Rufus is one, and the other three -
“You’ve got company,” Rufus tells him, moments before there’s a loud knocking on the door.
Bobby casually fits one hand over the grip of the pistol in his waistband and carefully opens the door.
“Uncle Bobby!”
Ah, yes. The other three exceptions. John Winchester and his boys, dropping by unannounced. How unusual.
Little Sammy throws his arms around Bobby, who gives him an affectionate rub on the back in return. Dean doesn’t hug him, and neither does John. Dean’s never hugged him, now that he thinks of it, even though Bobby’s been watching after him sporadically for over five years now. At the ripe age of thirteen, he’s got a man’s face with John’s hard expression etched on every line of it. It’s chilling, seeing them together sometimes.
He swallows. “Come on in, fellas.” He nods to the kettle on the stove. “There’s coffee, if you want.”
Dean fixes a mug for John and one for himself, and then collapses on the sofa next to Rufus, who eyeballs him bemusedly before turning back to the television. He’s watching some cop show now.
“How’s it going?” Bobby asks John cautiously. Truth be told, John Winchester’s not his favorite person, but he understand how the man got to be the way he is. If it hadn’t been for Rufus, Bobby’d probably have ended up just like him.
John finishes drinking deeply from his mug and wipes his mouth. “Just passing through, on our way to Fargo,” he says gruffly. “Town’s got a Wendigo, sounds like. I got some information, though, that I thought you might want.” He takes another drink. “Came across it last week when I was interrogating a demon.”
From his seat in the kitchen, Bobby can feel Rufus’s eyes on them, and he inclines his head slightly to invite him to join them. John nods to him as he straddles a kitchen stool, and then continues.
“Me and Dean caught up with a demon in El Paso – ”
“You and Dean?” Bobby interrupts angrily. “Christ, John, you got your thirteen year old son hunting demons with you now?”
John’s expression darkens, and he feels Rufus squeeze his shoulder in warning.
“He’s my son, Singer,” John says sharply. “Damn good interrogator, too. Kid’s got a gift.”
Bobby shrugs Rufus’s hand off and crosses his arms. “That’s fucking great, John. You must be real proud.”
“Bobby,” Rufus whispers.
“You want the information or not?” John asks.
Bobby exhales and nods. “Go on.”
“Anyways, he didn’t have what we were looking for, exactly, but once Dean got going on him, he ended up having some pretty interesting stories. ‘Bout a demon named Raum who’s recently resurfaced. Known as the ‘Destroyer of Cities’.”
“Sounds like a fun guy,” Bobby mutters.
“Supposedly, Raum would come into kingdoms and worm his way to the top of the ladder, deceive the king, and a whole lot of other shit, but the bottom line is, the places he visited were always left in ruins.” He pauses, and then says, “Word is, he’s fixing to make us his next big target.”
Bobby frowns. “’Us’ – as in Sioux Falls?”
John rolls his eyes. “No, ‘us’ as in the fucking United States, jackass. But he’s starting here, in South Dakota. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it.”
Rufus’s eyes light up. “Buck fuckin’ Stetson. I knew it.”
John looks between them, clearly confused.
“Guy running for governor,” Bobby clarifies. “Rufus here thinks he’s possessed because he wants to cut teacher salaries.”
John nods slowly, clearly still not on board. “Right. Well, the demon we caught didn’t seem to know exactly who Raum’s wearing, but that’d be a good bet. Just wanted to give you a heads up.” He stands and brushes off his jeans. “I’m gonna run into town and pick up some supplies. Okay if I leave the boys here for a few?”
“Of course,” Bobby agrees.
John leaves without another word.
“So, that’s the famous John Winchester,” Rufus says softly once he’s gone. “Never would’ve guessed the two of you were tight. Seems like you can’t stand the guy.”
Bobby rubs the back of his neck. “Didn’t realize it was any of your business, Rufus.”
He gets a look for that one.
“He’s a good hunter,” Bobby sighs. “I’d trust him with my life. Have done, now and again. But – well, we don’t exactly see eye to eye on some things.” His eyes flicker over to where Sam and Dean are sprawled on the couch, idly kicking at each other.
“They’re his boys, Bobby,” Rufus murmurs. Bobby can feel the other man’s breath against his ear and his skin prickles.
“I know it,” Bobby whispers back. “And who knows, maybe if I’d had kids of my own, I’d be the same. But come on,” he turns to look at Rufus, and finds that their faces are barely an inch apart. “This ain’t no life for a kid.”
Rufus is close – so close – he can practically taste the coffee on his breath, and his eyes are half-closing reflexively, if he sways just a little, his lips would be at the edge of Rufus’s jaw – no. Not now, anyways. Get it together, Bobby. He inhales shakily and steps back. “Anyways – ”
“You’d be a good father, Bobby,” Rufus says firmly. “You wouldn’t be like him.”
Bobby narrows his eyes. “Like who? John?”
“Like whoever it is you’re afraid you’d turn into.” Rufus is eyeballing him hard, like he’s seeing a whole bunch of things that Bobby really doesn’t want him to.
He’s not sure what to say, so he just walks out of the kitchen and into the living room to sit with the boys (that are not his, damnit). “Get your mucky shoes off my furniture,” he scolds good-naturedly. “How’s school going?”
Dean laughs harshly. “School’s bullshit. What are we on, Sammy, number five this year?”
Sam doesn’t look up from his book. “Six.”
Bobby whistles. “Hard to imagine you two get any learning done that way.”
“I’m learning,” Dean says proudly. “I can field-strip and reassemble a 9-mil in fifteen seconds.”
“Yeah, when you don’t drop the clip on the floor,” Sam adds behind a smile.
“Shut up! That was once, you little bitch.” Dean knocks Sam’s book out of his hands.
Rufus crouches down to pick it up. “The Hobbit,” he says, sounding impressed. “Eight years old and already reading Tolkein, huh?”
“I’m nine,” Sam says sternly. “And it’s a good book. It was my mom’s.”
“Nine?” Rufus raises his eyebrows at Bobby and his mouth twitches in a smile. “Must be a late bloomer.”
“I can beat up a ten year old. I’m not a baby.”
“It’s true,” Dean grins. “Sammy hung a kid back in Tallahassee out to dry. Got suspended from school and everything.” He punches Sam affectionately in the shoulder. “Not that it matters; we left the next day.”
“I believe it,” Rufus says seriously. “Always say it’s the wiry ones you gotta watch out for.”
Dean turns to Bobby. “Dad’s got me working on the car in my spare time. Maybe when I’m older, I could come out here and help you.” The hopefulness in his voice grips Bobby’s heart like a vise.
“Might have use for a smart-mouthed little punk one of these days,” Bobby allows, trying to keep the thickness out of his voice. “Don’t talk about getting older, though. I don’t need to be reminded.”
“Oh, please,” Rufus groans. “Not this again.”
Sam gives Bobby a look. “Yeah, Uncle Bobby. You’re only thirty-six. Same age as Dad.”
“That’s damn near forty,” Bobby grumbles.
“Am I invisible?” Rufus asks. “Mid-forties over there, thank you very much, and I am as fresh as a goddamn daisy.”
Bobby looks up at him. “You’ve got the soul of a World War I vet,” he snorts. “Anything short of a coma’d feel fresh to you.”
“Wow, you guys are adorable,” Dean smirks. “Like an old married couple.”
“Young married couple,” Rufus amends with a wink. “Don’t tell the neighbors; they still think interracial relations are against the law.”
Bobby stands up. “Okay, I am done with this conversation. I’ve got work to do.” He points to Dean. “And I told you to get your damn shoes off my couch, boy.”
He hears their peals of laughter as he retreats to his office, and a few minutes later, he looks up to see Dean leaning against the door.
“Just gonna stand there?”
Dean straightens and walks over. “What’re you researching?”
“Demon lore.” He gestures to the thick, leather-bound books around him.
Dean peers closer at the page he’s studying. “What language is that?”
“Latin.”
“Shit.” Dean’s eyebrows go up. “You speak Latin?”
“Unlike some people, I paid attention in school,” Bobby says wryly. “You should try it sometime.”
Dean’s fingers trace lightly over the letters. “Nah,” he sighs. “That’s Sammy’s gig. I only go part-time now, anyways. Dad’s been letting me help him while Sammy’s in school.”
Bobby swallows hard. “I see.”
“It’s great,” Dean goes on, talking faster. “We totally smoked this poltergeist back in Dallas. And then there was this witch in Omaha, and this crazy old lady’s ghost in Kansas City, I thought for sure she was gonna toast Dad, but he tossed me the lighter and I just lit her up! It was bad-ass.” It’s hard not to smile a little at the elation in Dean’s voice, because Bobby knows just how it feels, but it gives him a stomachache at the same time.
“Sounds like you’re shaping up to be quite the hunter,” he says, trying to smother the sadness punctuating his words. Dean doesn’t seem to notice it, because he’s distinctly pink with pride when Bobby looks up at him again. “Here.” He fishes a book out of the pile that’s already been translated. “Make yourself useful. I’m looking for anything on a demon called Raum.”
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean says after a few minutes. “Who’s ‘Rasputin’?”
“Advisor to Czar Nicholas of – he was an old Russian guy,” Bobby amends at the blank look on Dean’s face. “Why?”
Dean points to the page he’s reading. “This book says he was mixed up with Raum, a million years ago or whatever.”
“Not even a hundred, but go on.”
“Well, um, it says he got away before the hunter had a chance to prove he was Raum, but he sounds pretty sure.” He squints at the small print. “…calls himself the Destroyer, although he does not cause the destruction himself. He fans the flames of discontent among the people…he has deceived the Czar – ”
“I’ll be damned,” Bobby muses. “Rasputin was a demon. There’s a new one.”
Dean grins. “Friend of yours?”
“You’re plenty old enough to smack now, you know.” Bobby mimes slapping him upside the head. “Watch yourself.”
“As if. I could take you,” Dean says confidently. “Shoulda seen me with this werewolf in Springfield, man, I straight up pasted that mother – ”
The door bangs open, and even though it’s immediately apparent that it’s just John, everyone but Sam freezes with their hands over their guns. “Another body just turned up in Fargo,” John calls grimly. “Come on, boys. We gotta go.”
Bobby gets a quick hug from Sam, and Dean says, “See you around,” like a goddamn twenty-five year old, and John gives him and Rufus a curt nod, and then they’re all gone.
“Well, Uncle Bobby,” Rufus says teasingly. “You do make a halfway decent parental figure; I’ll give you that. Those kids sure love you.”
Bobby ducks his head and tries to disguise his smile with a grimace. “Couple of snot-nosed brats.”
“Convincing.” Rufus shakes his head. “Oh, by the way, you owe me a bottle of scotch.”
“The hell I do,” Bobby retorts. “We ain’t proved anything yet, Rufus.”
“Well,” Rufus says, lacing his fingers together and cracking his knuckles. “You know there’s only one way to do that.”
--
Which is how they end up disguised as reporters (Brewer and Jones, respectively) later that week at a Buck Stetson rally. The crowd is practically foaming at the mouth for him, and up close, Bobby can see that the guy is channeling pure charisma. He continues his tirade against education and teachers, and eventually expands to health care, bellowing accusations and promises so fast Bobby can hardly keep up with them. It sounds good, all of it, unless of course you think about it for half a second.
“I’m going to shoot myself just so I can go vengeful spirit on this clown,” Bobby mutters under his breath. “Also so I don’t have to listen to any more of his horse shit.”
“Patience, Bobby,” Rufus mutters back. “Look at him. He seem a little pale to you?”
Stetson pauses to let the crowd roar and wipes his forehead, beaming out at all of them, but Bobby does notice it when his eyes sweep pass them – there’s a haunted look there, one that any hunter’d be able to spot on account of personal experience, and one that he’s never seen a demon wear.
“Okay, fine,” he relents under his breath. “Something’s definitely off. I still don’t think he’s a demon, but he ain’t all right either.”
“My opponent says he wants ‘universal preschool’,” Buck starts in again, his lip curling in obvious distaste. “He thinks we should be required – that’s right, legally bound, ladies and gentlemen – to take your hard-earned money and then tell you the state can raise your children better than you can! But I don’t think so!” he shouts, amid angry protests from the crowd. “I don’t think so! What’s next? Should we just hand our kids right over once they leave the hospital? Turn them over to the liberal teachers who will fill their minds with godless, amoral nonsense? To the people that think the Pledge of Allegiance should be amended to exclude God?”
The crowd is absolutely beside themselves, and Bobby thinks he’s seen less hysteria at televangelist faith healings. “They’re gonna start rioting soon,” he calls to Rufus over the din. “When can we shoot him?”
Rufus laughs grimly. “Not soon enough.”
They’re directed backstage after the rally is over with the rest of the press, and Bobby manages to sneak his gun, spray paint, and flask of holy water past the metal detectors. After waiting for an hour or so, they’re directed into a room, where an attractive blonde woman in an expensive business suit is waiting for them.
“Mr. Stetson will be with us in a few minutes,” she says smoothly, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m Adeline Foster, his press secretary and campaign manager. I’ll be answering most of your questions today.”
Great. “Well, Ms. Foster, we were sort of hoping to get a profile on your boss – a look at what makes the man, if you will.” Bobby gives her what he hopes is a winning smile. “Our paper – the Conservative Quarterly – is real invested in this campaign. We feel he’s a true American hero.”
She blushes a little and nods. “Of course. And thank you, on behalf of the campaign.”
“It seems like we all barely knew who he was a couple of months ago, and now he’s taken the state by storm,” Bobby continues. “How’d he rise up in the ranks so fast?”
“Well, through hard work, of course,” she replies smoothly. “Mr. Stetson, as you know, was a party legislator until recently, when he became privy to the corruption and moral decay among party frontrunners.” She smiles in a practiced way.
“You’re referring to Pete Anders, who used campaign dollars to fund abortions for his mistresses, is that right?” Rufus cuts in.
She gives him a cool look, and then continues. “A man of Mr. Stetson’s principles could never stand by and let something like that happen. He is, as you said, a true American hero.”
“Right,” Bobby says, pretending to make a note. “What an inspiration. I – we also couldn’t help but notice that until recently, Mr. Stetson seemed to be suffering from some sort of speech impediment?”
“He overcame it,” she replies, and there’s an edge to her voice now.
“Remarkable. Have you noticed anything else that’s changed about him? That might’ve started around the same time? I mean, he just seems so different – in a good way, of course – ”
“What exactly are you getting at, Mr. Brewer?” Her expression is suspicious. Time to change gears.
“It looks like Mr. Stetson’s got the governorship tied up, so to speak,” he tries. “What’s next? Are we seeing the rise of a future president?”
That seems to placate her a little. “Well, it’s much too early to say, of course, but I’d certainly vote for him. He’d be exactly the kind of leader this country needs.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Bobby agrees warmly. He opens his mouth to ask another question when the door clicks open, and Buck Stetson himself enters.
He doesn’t fill up the room like Bobby expected him to. He’s small, shorter than Bobby, shorter than Adeline, even. Maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet.
“Gentlemen,” he says, extending a hand to each of them. “I see you’re in the capable hands of Ms. Foster. Unfortunately, I’m being asked to speak at another press conference, and I’m afraid I’ll have to answer your questions another day.”
“Sir, please, just one – ” Bobby begins, but Stetson is already halfway out the door, and Rufus steps forward and half-coughs, “Christo.”
Stetson looks confused, and apologetic. “Bless…you? I’m truly sorry, gentlemen, but I assure you, Ms. Foster is more than suited to take care of you. There are free campaign buttons in the lobby; feel free to take as many as you wish.” He gives them a final wave, and then the door is shutting behind him.
Bobby and Rufus share a long, measured look, and then turn to face Adeline Foster, who is positively beaming. “Well,” she says delightedly. “It looks like we have a great deal to talk about after all.” She blinks, and her eyes flick to black.
Oh.
Oh.
“Mother – ” Bobby reaches for his holy water and manages to close half his fingers around it before she elbows him right in the face and he goes crashing to the floor. Dazedly, he tries to get up, but there’s another sharp blow to his head, and he hears Rufus shout something, and then everything goes black.
--
When he wakes up, it’s dark, and he’s disoriented. “Rufus?”
The answer comes in a whisper. “I’m here, Bobby.”
His eyes adjust a little, and he sees they’re in some sort of warehouse, his hands are tied behind a support beam, and Rufus is in a similar predicament about ten feet away. The holy water is gone, but his pistol’s still strapped to his leg.
“You okay?”
“Let me get back to you on that,” Rufus grumbles, and Bobby gathers from his tone of voice that he’s not seriously wounded. “How fast you think you can get out of your ropes?”
Bobby tests his wrists. They’re tight, but sloppy. Raum’s obviously never been a Navy SEAL. “Couple minutes, give or take.”
“We need a plan, Bobby.”
“Yeah, I’m working on it,” he grunts, rolling his shoulders and twisting against the ropes, trying to ignore where they’re slicing into his skin.
There’s the sound of a door slamming, and the clicking of heels approaching. A light flickers on above them, and Adeline – well, Raum, wearing Adeline – is illuminated in front of them.
“Oh good, you’re awake.” She – he – smiles widely. “Hello, boys.”
“Raum,” Bobby snarls, straining harder against his bindings.
“Oh, good. You’ve done your homework.”
There’s graffiti on the wall behind them, and Bobby thinks he sees some spray paint cans left on the ground. He prays they aren’t empty.
“You get an A for effort,” Raum continues, still smiling. “Or maybe an A-minus, since you missed a pretty crucial detail. I’m a deceiver of kings, Bobby. Not the king himself.” He rubs Adeline’s hands together. “I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.”
“Why Stetson?” Bobby spits. “What’d the poor bastard do to earn your attention?”
“Ah, Brandon,” Raum says fondly. “Idiot tried to make a crossroads deal a few months back to get a leg up in the party.” He laughs. “I’ve got an arrangement with the Head of the Crossroads Department that I get first crack at all the politicians. Stetson seemed like a good fit, so I gave him what he wanted, and hopped up top to have some fun.”
“You really think his weasely little ass could get to be president?” He’s about halfway out of his ropes now. Keep him talking.
Raum shrugs. “Who cares? All I need is for his ideas to catch on – dismantle the education system, get rid of health care, whip everybody up into a blaming frenzy, I mean, humans don’t need that much guidance when it comes to destroying themselves.” He chuckles again. “You know I haven’t been up here since 1916? I’ll take credit for the Ottoman Empire and that little side job in Russia with the Czar, but Germany? The ‘Soviet Union’? That was all you guys.” He fixes Bobby with a look of extreme satisfaction. “Made hanging around downstairs actually kind of enjoyable, for a while.”
And – there it goes. His hands are free. He tenses, and asks, “So, assuming we’re not gonna live to see the end, what kind of timetable are you working with here?”
Raum says, “Well, I’m glad you asked – ” and then Bobby makes his move. The pistol’s in his hand in the span of half a second, and he’s on his feet. He doesn’t look at Rufus, because he doesn’t want to remind Raum that’s he’s even there.
“My, my,” Raum pouts. “Already tired of our conversation. I’m hurt.”
Bobby clicks back the safety.
“You know I’m a demon, right?” Raum gestures to Adeline’s body. “This meat is already used up. You can shoot me as many times as you want.”
“Good to know,” Bobby says, and then fires three salt round directly into Raum’s smirking face.
It’s chaos. Raum goes down screaming, clawing at his face, and then Rufus is on his feet too, thank God, and tosses Bobby a very warm flask.
“Where – ”
“You don’t wanna know,” Rufus tells him, and then he runs over to where the spray paint cans have been abandoned.
“I was going to kill you quickly,” Raum gasps, getting back to his feet, “But now I think I’ll make you suffer. For days,” he growls, and then he’s grabbing Bobby by the throat.
Bobby throws the holy water in his face and fires two more salt rounds into his kneecaps. Howling with rage, Raum throws him backward, and he scrambles upright again, trying to keep his holy water attacks centered on Raum’s face, emptying his clip into every weak point on Adeline’s body he can think of, trying to keep him blind to what Rufus is (hopefully) doing behind them.
Then, the flask is empty, his gun is useless, and Raum’s got him by the collar, smiling at something over his shoulder. “Looks like your friend’s trying to make a break for it,” he hisses. “Can’t have that, now, can we?” He throws Bobby to the side and laughs at a half-finished, bright red Devil’s Trap. “Nice try, boys.”
Then he takes another long step forward, and freezes.
“Thanks,” Rufus says, flipping on another light to reveal a second Devil’s Trap, painted in black against the gray concrete floor, that Raum has stepped right in the center of. Barely noticeable in the dark. “Not my best work, but it seems to be doing the trick.”
“This is dry,” Raum spits.
Rufus grins. “Got out of my ropes about three hours ago.”
Bobby could kiss him right now, if they weren’t maybe still about to die.
“You are about to wish you hadn’t done this,” Raum says quietly. Adeline’s face has gone full demon; eyes like pools of ink, mouth contorted into a hideous grimace.
The room begins to shake.
Rufus shouts, “Bobby!” as the lights above them shatter, and Bobby begins reciting the exorcism from memory as loudly and as forcefully as he can.
Raum smiles wickedly and stares at the paint cans, which start to rattle violently. He’s turning them into bombs. Fantastic. Bobby barrels on through the exorcism as they explode into flames, one by one. Raum shudders, and fire starts licking the edges of the Devil’s Trap.
“Hurry up, Bobby!” Rufus calls.
The demon is writhing and gagging now, emitting little puffs of black smoke, determined to stay in his host. The Trap will be destroyed by the fire soon. Bobby punches through the last line of the exorcism, feeling the ground breaking under him as he does. Finally, Adeline’s head is thrown back in a scream, and Raum funnels out of her, dissolving into nothing as he’s sent back to Hell.
Bobby leans over with his hands on his knees, panting, and glances over at Rufus, just in time to see the wall of fire climb up to the generator in the corner.
“Get – ”
They’re both thrown backwards by the explosion. Bobby’s head cracks soundly against the floor, and he thinks if he didn’t have a concussion already, he’ll definitely have one now. Not that it’ll matter if they both burn to death.
He sits up and coughs, feeling the fire inside his lungs. The whole place is up in flames now. He sees Rufus sprawled on the ground some yards away, and beyond him – a door? He’ll have to chance it. He lunges over to his friend and hauls him over his shoulder, pulling his collar up over his mouth to try and filter out the smoke. It doesn’t do much good. He staggers forward. Yes, it’s definitely a door. His vision is going cloudy, and Rufus is about two hundred stinking pounds of dead weight, and he thinks maybe his pant leg is on fire, and –
They tumble out the door and land in a heap in a pile of wet leaves. Bobby blinks and coughs raucously, his eyes watering and his throat searing. He drags Rufus away from the building and then turns to look at him. “Rufus,” he rasps. “Come on, you bastard, wake up.”
Rufus doesn’t move, and Bobby checks his pulse, feeling ice creep through his veins despite the residual heat still coming off the warehouse.
He’s alive. Thank God. “Rufus,” Bobby says louder. “Damnit.” His hands are on the sides of Rufus’s face and there are tears streaming out of his eyes (from the fire, he thinks, that’s it, he’s not crying), and he’s saying, “Wake up, you dumb son of a bitch, if you think I’m dragging your ass all the way back to the road, you’ve got another thing coming, and you owe me a damn bottle of scotch, so wake the fuck up,” and then Rufus groans, and he almost sobs in relief.
He sits back as Rufus pushes himself up on his elbows. “What was that about me owing you a bottle of scotch?”
Bobby rubs his eyes and laughs. “You lost the bet, Rufus. Stetson wasn’t the demon.”
Rufus reaches up to touch his face, where Bobby’s hand was just a few seconds ago. “Well, you didn’t think there was a demon at all. Bet’s void, if you ask me.”
“Not a chance,” Bobby shakes his head. “You said if you were wrong about Buck Stetson being a demon, you’d buy me a damn bottle of scotch. Well, you were fucking wrong, Rufus.” He laughs again. “Close, but still wrong.”
Rufus’s eyes are bright as he pushes himself up straighter, closer. “You sure those were my exact words?” They’re inches apart now. “I must be getting old if I’m losing a bet to Bobby Singer.”
“Must be,” Bobby agrees, and then, without meaning to, without thought, he closes the distance between them and freezes with his bottom lip dusting against the whiskers along Rufus’s chin.
He stops breathing for a second, and then Rufus says huskily, “Never figured you for such a tease, Singer,” and then their lips are crushed together, and Rufus’s shirt is fisted in Bobby’s hand, and Rufus’s hand is strong at the back of his head, calloused thumb caressing along his jawline, and they mouth at each other like half-drowned men until they both have to stop and wheeze to catch their breath.
“This is pathetic,” Bobby complains. “We’re old, but we ain’t this old.”
Rufus places a palm in the center of his chest, and he feels self-conscious all of a sudden, because he’s not as in-shape as he used to be. Not like Rufus, who’s all lean, rugged muscle.
“You’re not old, Bobby,” Rufus says, rolling his eyes. “Not even as hunters go. And you don’t look it, either, so you can quit your whining.” His mouth quirks a little as their eyes meet. “I can think of better things for that mouth of yours to be doing.”
Bobby takes a moment to memorize the hungry look in Rufus’s eyes and think to himself, this is happening, before he’s pulling Rufus over him and running his hands down the broad planes of his back, sliding his tongue over Rufus’s with a sigh, and when Rufus sucks on his tongue and nips at his bottom lip, he feels himself get half-hard in his jeans, and when Rufus grinds purposefully into him, he moans out loud.
“Come on,” Rufus murmurs, sucking at a spot beneath his ear. “Fire department’ll be here soon.”
Bobby nods, gasping, and reaches for his hat. “Do you want to go –?”
“Back to your place? Fuck yes.” Rufus’s eyes are dark with lust. “Let’s go.”
They find a beat-up old pickup on the side of the road about half a mile off, probably some camper’s, and hot-wire it, abandoning it again once they get a couple blocks away from the salvage yard. The atmosphere in the car is electric with warmth, and it takes all of Bobby’s self-control to keep his eyes on the road. Of course, once they’re in his place and the door’s shut behind them, that self-control goes flying out the window.
Rufus is the first to lose all his clothes. Bobby can’t stop staring; can’t decide whether he wants to keep kissing him or just sit back and look, because God, damn, Rufus is beautiful like this. He’s still in boxers and an undershirt, which Rufus quickly divests him of, pulling him close and reaching down to graze a few fingers over his aching hard-on.
“Fuck,” Bobby gasps, shivering all over.
“Easy,” Rufus rumbles, guiding their cocks together and rubbing his own precome-slicked head over Bobby’s. He inhales sharply and wraps his hand around both of them, whispers, “I’ve got you,” before that hand is gliding up and down, fingers wet with sweat and spit and come, first slowly, then faster, and then Bobby’s eyes are rolling back in his head and he’s hissing through clenched teeth, fingers digging into Rufus’s shoulders, that familiar throb in the pit of his stomach that makes his legs shake, and thank god they’re lying on the bed, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to function upright.
“Rufus, I – ”
Rufus shushes him and strokes even faster, furiously pumping their cocks together, the sensation of fingers and slick palms and the searing heat and weight of Rufus’s dick against his making Bobby think he’s not going to last very long at all. He reaches down and closes a fist around the base of his cock, whimpering. “I’m not gonna – ”
“Shut up. Me either,” Rufus grunts. “So come for me now, and then later, you can fuck me for a good, long time.”
Bobby’s brain is possibly turning to mush, because he can’t form a coherent response to that.
“This ain’t the main event,” Rufus says, low and guttural in his ear, like a filthy promise, and then he twists his hand roughly, and Bobby’s orgasm is punched out of him, striping his stomach and Rufus’s in long, sticky ropes. Rufus follows a second after, going boneless under him with a shuddering exhale, and Bobby can feel the come from both their dicks dripping down, and he thinks that’s a little gross, but it’s also weirdly a turn-on, so he decides to let himself drift through post-coital haze in Rufus’s loose, lazy grip.
After a few minutes, he realizes that he does not, in fact, have the recovery rate of a teenager, so he stumbles into the kitchen to get some water, and upon further reflection, a nice strong drink.
“Where’s mine?” Rufus asks into the pillow when he flops back down on the bed.
“In the kitchen,” Bobby replies. “Hey – no – this is mine, Rufus – ”
He ends up sharing anyways.
“Fucking freeloader,” he mumbles, and he might’ve been about to say something else, but then Rufus is leaning forward and licking the residue of alcohol out of his mouth, and all thoughts unrelated to fuck yes are lost.
They make out sloppily for a while, hungry and unhurried, and Bobby feels it settle over him like something entirely real, because it is, isn’t it? This isn’t faking it; he’s not pretending to be a Fed or a reporter or a Census agent; he’s not pretending that he never stabbed his wife while she was possessed by a demon; that he doesn’t wake up every morning thinking it might be his last day on earth, that the monsters will finally catch up to him and he’ll get to see wherever it is he’s been sending them for the past six years. Rufus knows him, like only a handful of people left alive on this earth do, and he’s still here, accepting him, lavishing on him like Bobby’s something special, instead of just another poor shmuck in the Midwest with a failing business and a receding hairline.
His introspection is promptly ended when Rufus ruts against him with a soft moan, and Bobby feels the prickle of arousal deep in his gut that means it’s about to be go-time. He sits back on his knees and rakes his eyes over Rufus, all taut muscle and dark eyes with a few grey hairs in his moustache, warm brown skin that’s scarred like a topographical map. He wants to memorize it; chronicle it like he does everything else in his life. Rufus wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and strokes the length of himself once, chuckling as he watches Bobby’s eyes glaze over.
“This ain’t a strip club, Bobby.” His fingers close around Bobby’s wrist and guides him closer. “You can touch.”
Bobby sways forward helplessly, never taking his eyes off the curve of Rufus’s cock. It’s stupid that he should be so mesmerized by it – he has, after all, seen Rufus naked before – but never like this, open, wanting. He wraps his fingers around Rufus and jacks him, slowly, feeling his own cock hardening against his stomach. Rufus grins darkly, and when Bobby looks up from his spot between Rufus’s knees, he sees the older man has produced a bottle of lube, presumably from thin air, since Bobby sure as fuck doesn’t keep any around the house.
Bobby swallows hard and takes it, half in a daze, spilling the liquid over his fingers and rubbing them together experimentally. God, it’s been so long since he’s done this. There were a few guys on the road when he’d gotten started, guys he’d told himself were just flukes, another side effect of loneliness, but here, with Rufus, it’s something entirely different. He strokes Rufus again, then glides his palm behind his sac and presses tentatively at the opening there.
Rufus sucks in a breath and says, “The fuck are you waiting for?” and then Bobby presses in, gently with one finger, then a little more firmly with two, and his cock jerks and jumps against his stomach, because fuck. He pulls out and presses in harder, and actually moans, because Rufus is so goddamn tight and so goddamn hot it’s unbelievable.
“I know,” Rufus grins. “Forty-four and I’ve still got the asshole of a – fuck – twenty year old – oh Jesus, Bobby, right there.” He arches and clenches around Bobby’s fingers, and Bobby fingers him harder, rubbing out a rhythm on his prostate until he sees precome leaking out the top of Rufus’s cock.
“Bobby,” Rufus gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’ve been holding out on me, you goddamn son of a – mother – oh God, just fuck me, I swear I’ll fucking shoot you if you don’t – ”
“Thank God,” Bobby breathes, and he spends exactly three seconds getting himself nice and wet with lube before he’s pushing in.
Some people talk about seeing stars the first time they get laid; the first time they get their dick in something hot and tight and wet that swallows them up, but Bobby sees entire fucking constellations inside Rufus. Nothing makes sense, up is down, right is left, and he might actually be floating, because that’s how honest-to-God motherfucking good it feels. They’re both cursing and gripping each other hard enough to leave bruises, and sweat is dripping down Bobby’s back to the same tempo that he’s fucking Rufus, first it’s a race, then it’s slow and shuddering, then fast again, he’s slamming deep into Rufus with a resounding slapping noise, and his balls are aching, and he’s beyond ready to come.
Rufus makes a sound like someone just knocked the wind out of him, and Bobby sees through blurry eyes that there’s a milky white puddle on the dark of his stomach, and that’s it, he’s gone. A stream of nonsense falls from his lips as he drives into Rufus one last time, giving him all he’s got, spilling into him like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do. They both gasp and cough, Rufus’s knees are shaking around him, and he strokes his hip absentmindedly, trying to soothe them both back into the material world.
Rufus groans in displeasure when he pulls out, and he’s not too thrilled with it either, but his dick is heavy and tender and needs a break. He collapses facedown on the bed and throws an arm over Rufus’s chest, smiling into the sheets when Rufus shifts to be closer to him, lining their bodies up neatly.
“We are gonna be a couple of sore sons-of-bitches tomorrow,” Rufus mutters after a few minutes. “I ain’t been fucked like that since my mid-thirties.”
“Shut up,” Bobby grumbles. “Don’t remind me. I’ve got the boys again this weekend.”
“’What happened to your back, Uncle Bobby?’” Rufus mimics, laughing.
“I said shut it,” Bobby says, but the happy little sigh he lets slip at the end kind of spoils the effect.
Rufus presses a kiss into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. “That was some goddamn good fucking, Bobby.”
Bobby snorts. “Your pillow talk’s as stale as your music, Rufus.”
That gets him a smack to the back of the head, but he doesn’t mind. He grips Rufus a little tighter and turns his head to look at him. “Hey.”
Rufus’s eyes are warm and half-closed. “Yeah?”
“If you thought sleeping with me would make me forget you lost the bet, you got another damn thing coming.”
Rufus glowers and mumbles something that sounds like, “motherfucker,” but he pulls Bobby closer anyways, slotting their legs together, and Bobby knows he’ll have to remind Rufus at least ten times before he actually concedes defeat.
It ends up being closer to twenty, plus a box of Viagra, but it’s well worth it, and not just because Rufus has good taste in scotch.